The Race (Part 1)

Saturday, I ran my first trail race (15K). Even though I’ve run oodles and oodles of road races over the years, I’d never run a trail race (prior to Saturday) and was anxious about what to expect.

The night before a race, I have a routine that I follow, but Friday the routine felt off-kilter somehow, I couldn’t put my finger on what wasn’t right. I kept telling myself that the following day’s race was just like every other race I’ve run except for it would be in the woods with not as many people.

Saturday morning, I dressed in race garb grabbed my cooler, packed with post-race fuel, my gym bag which held dry clothes and my trail running shoes, directions to the race and headed to my car. I had an hour’s ride to strategize the day’s run, but about fifteen minutes into the drive I gave up strategizing and chose to set a goal of finishing in an upright position.

Throughout the drive, I checked the directions several times, but I still got lost. As I made wrong turns, u-turns and checked and rechecked and rechecked my rechecking, I watched the clock with mounting dismay. The start time for the race was staggered from 7:15 AM to 8:05 AM and the group I was assigned to with was to start at 7:35 AM.

At 7:40 AM, I was still in my car looking for the correct dirt road and I fought within myself not to turn around and call it a wash, go home and crawl back under the comfort of my covers. But I kept telling myself, that no matter how late I got there, I’m still going to run it. Even if I get there at 8:00 AM, I’d still run it. Despite my frustration, I pushed myself to soldier on.

At 7:45 AM, I pulled onto the right road parked my car, grabbed my hydration pack and jogged to the start line, already ten minutes behind my assigned starting group. In the middle of a speedy course briefing by the race director, a more seasoned trail runner interrupted him and said, “I know the route, I’ll get her started.” And off I went. Down a steep hill, a right at the bottom of the hill thru stands of vegetation way taller than me and then out into a field where there were cows…yeah, cows.

I kept up with my guide for the first half mile, but began to pull back my pace, focusing on where I put each foot on the uneven, rock littered path. The field gave way to the cool shade of the woods where I passed a couple of mountain bikers and pulled back my speed even more as I entered the more technical part of the trail.

Forty-five minutes in, I was passed from behind by a group that had started later than me. Didn’t bother me at all. They encouraged me and kept going, I said thanks and kept plodding along at my own pace.

Fifty minutes in, the group I would’ve started with had I been on time, passed me on their way back in. I asked if I was almost there, one yelled over her shoulder, “you know you’re close when the traffic from the highway is louder and you see houses on the top of the rise to your right.”

I set a goal of making it to the turn-around (the race was out and back) in one hour, but fell short by eight minutes. However, my heart skipped a few beats when I saw the houses on the rise to my right, signaling I was close to the turnaround.

After the turnaround, I decided to take it easy on the return trip. I pulled a plastic Ziploc bag with my camera in it out of my hydration pack and ran with it in my right hand stopping to take pictures of different things on the path I’d observed as I came in.

Like the cactus with the pretty pink buds and the tree roots that forced me to pick my feet up and pay attention to the ground that was directly in front of me, not allowing me to look any further than what was immediately in my way. Or, the massive drop off I had to climb up (then scoot down on my rear on the way back).

The trip back was easier because not only did I know that I was over half-way done, but I also was more familiar with the terrain having run it once before and I knew I was headed in a homeward direction.

I finished in a little over two hours and thirty minutes. I’m pretty proud of that. On a paved road in more controlled circumstances, I would take an hour or so off that time, but that’s on the road. I’m totally proud of what I did on the trail and look forward to my next trail race!

You're Not Alone

Ron is a sore loser. I mean a really REALLY sore loser. Wikipedia the two words “sore” and “loser” together and a picture of Ron will pop up. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but if you give me a few minutes I’ll update the page on Wikipedia and then you’ll see his pic. You would think that after 25 years of coaching he’d be used to the emotions that come with winning and losing. Well quit thinking that way ‘cuz you’re wrong.

When Ron’s players are up against a tough team that they may lose to, he always tells me not to come to the game. Wait, I think I’m downplaying that. He ORDERS me not to go. Yeah right, gimme a break, order me not to do something? He goes on and on about how the team is going to get massacred and how it’ll be way too embarrassing for him and he doesn’t want me sitting in the stands hearing all the people talk bad about the team and the coaches (and oh boy do those fans talk some major smack). He doesn’t want to subject me to what he sees as his personal failure.

The first couple of years, I ignored his edicts and went to the games anyway. I endured the crowd comments by yelling plays at the team…for example: to the quarterback who’s unsuccessfully executed The Option, two consecutive plays in a row by keeping the ball and trying to run it through an offensive line that consistently misses their assignment, I yell “Option means you don’t have to keep the ball, you have an option of giving it off, to someone else.” I mean hey, maybe he was asleep during that part of practice where they run through his options. Or to the defense I’d yell, “you’re supposed to block the other team, not give’em an open alley to run the ball thru.” It's quite possibe they were trying to be polite and let the other team pass, I dunno!

After games I’d head down to the locker rooms with the other coach’s wives and wait for Ron to come off the field. While the other coaches and their wives were hugging and laughing and shaking off the “massacre”, I got to console Eeyore whose 6ft 2in two-hundred some odd pound frame seemed to have shrunk a few feet as he would stand hunched over in defeat. He refused to talk more than a few words and joking around with him was taboo. He’s just not good at losing.

I struggle with his request for me not to be there when he feels he’s going to lose. Supporting those you love in good and bad times is programmed into my DNA. I was raised, that you should be there with a party-in-a-bag to celebrate when your loved one wins and have a first-aid kit in hand to gently tend to their wounds (or gashes whatever the case may be) when they lose.

At the beginning of the third year, I decided to approach the “don’t come we’re gonna get slaughtered,” thing differently. I resolved that if he didn’t want me to witness his perceived failure, I would go to the games incognito. I’d pull on ball cap, arranging it low on my forehead, then I'd dress in a non-descript outfit and sit in a corner at the very top of the bleachers and quietly cheer him on. Then, as the last minutes ticked away, I’d head toward the parking lot and watch the rest of the game while sitting on the roof of my car and as soon as the scoreboard read 00:00, I slid off the roof, got in my car and headed home, Ron none the wiser.

This year in anticipation of the ‘poor loser’ monster emerging from the murky depths, I’ve been checking out new ball caps and shopping for this year’s lastest fashion in ‘incognito’ clothing. But spiritually, this football season is different for me. Over the last two years, I’ve been walking through a spiritual season where God has been working on an elaborate tattoo for my soul. The tattoo, now finished, reads: “you are not alone.” Now that His season of work is complete, I see and understand more clearly Deuteronomy 3:6 , a passage that is repeated again and again throughout scripture.

Even when I feel like I don’t want anyone around me because I’m ashamed of my failure, my shortcomings, He’s there. Sometimes, I feel that no one will understand a particular issue that I’m working thru, so I clam up and tunnel myself into a hole emotionally, blocking out the world, for fear of being embarrassed or people thinking less of me because of my struggle. Even in my cave I’ve hollowed out for myself God’s there. There’s no where that I can run, hide, tunnel, bike, burrow, fly, or ensconce myself that He’s not there. There’s power in those words, “I will never leave you, nor forsake you.”

HE'S ALWAYS THERE!

Quit trying to push God away. Quit trying to make excuses for why He can’t be a part of your day (the good ones and the bad ones). Quit making excuses for why you can’t spend time with Him.

For better or for worse, He’s there.

Win or lose He’s there.

Face it, even if you push Him out and tell Him not to show up, He’s gonna show up. You may not see Him. He may have a hat and His ‘incognito’ clothing on, but He’s there!

He’s PROMISED that He’ll never leave us. He’s there (He’s looking over your shoulder reading this blog entry with you right now saying “yeah, what she said”).

So buck up!

Quit telling God to forgo those rough spots that you’re afraid of stumbling thru and getting bathed in the funk of failure.

Quit telling Him, that you’ll let him recommence directing your life once you get to a place you know you’ll succeed.

DUDE! He’s coming to the game whether you like it or not. You might as well have him sitting dead center on the 50-yard line yelling plays at you.

As His child, as His investment, you’re NEVER alone!

Don’t look for me at tonight’s game, you'll give away my disguise. I’ll be hiding from Ron in the dark nether regions of the upper most rows of the bleachers.

You may not see me, but trust that I’ll be there.

Indian Winter

As I sit here typing, it is 9:45 PM, the temperature outside is 73 degrees and according to weatherchannel.com, the wind is blowing at 14 mph with gusts in excess of 25 mph. While climates a little further north celebrate "Indian Summers" in the dead of winter, we here in Texas REVEL in freak winters (i.e. temps below 80 degrees in the summer) in lieu of the pit-sweatin' summer and early fall temps that distinguish Texas weather.

My run today was awesome! It was overcast, slightly windy and the temps were cool with low low low humidity. As I ran, I thought about how I wanted to hang onto this weather forever and ever. I don't want it to go away. It's like water for a parched soul. Looking forward to Saturday's race, I whispered a prayer that the conditions would remain the same thru the weekend.

But I can't hold onto today, or earlier today. I can't stop time, nor can I control the weather.

In my walk with Christ, I sometimes hit a comfy spot in the midst of a workhorse of a season. A spot where He's allowed me a lil' break, and I'm sitttin' in the AC, sprawled across an oversized chair, feet propped up on an ottoman, Crystal Light within reach a great book lying on my chest and my eyelids drooping, drooping, drooping as I doze off to a land where all is bliss.

I cherish those times. I call those times my "good time-outs." But they're often short lived and the heat of the task at hand blasts me back into focus sooner than I would like and BAM I'm up and back in the race of life again.

Those precious, scant times make the long hot seasons of what seems like never ending eternal lessons a little more bearable.

Those special stretches, be they days, hours or even just minutes stolen behind closed eyelids and deep breaths, help me to remember that just as the heat of the summer will soon be bullied into hiding by the cool breezes of autumn, so too, my season of learning, changing, growing on whatever truth He's working on in my world will also eventually wind to an end, ushering in much needed rest, relaxation and cool cool breezes.

"...He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul..."